


did you lose what won't return?

by sxldato



Category: White Collar
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dead Kate, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Existential Crisis, Family Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt Neal, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Gore, Not A Fix-It, Panic Attacks, Vomiting, everyone is deeply concerned, neal fakes it and doesn't make it, neal needs a hug, obviously, peter is an Anxious Dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 08:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3603795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxldato/pseuds/sxldato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How exactly did Neal cope with Kate's death?<br/>He didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	did you lose what won't return?

**Author's Note:**

> oooooh this is sad this is really really sad wow why did i do this  
> i just. jesus christ you guys do y'all remember how in love neal was with kate like. holy shit neal  
> and that flashback episode in S2 was the WORST because you get to see this little bright-eyed baby neal falling head over heels in love with kate and you KNOW what's gonna happen you KNOW and. fuck he was gonna propose to her and they were gonna watch their kids run around in the park and oh no  
> precious children never had a chance ugh god  
> i've been going over this again and again for days so it can basically be considered beta-read i don't care  
> title is from "Flares" by The Script WHICH IS REALLY RELEVANT TO THIS FIC AND REALLY UPSETTING. I AM UPSET

He would be able to deal with it if it were a constant dull ache instead of an excruciating pain that came and went whenever it wanted. There was no pattern, either; he could never know the next time it would hit him like a ton of bricks. Out of nowhere, the cruel reminder that she would never come back would slap him across the face. It would tighten his chest, constrict his lungs, make it hard to breathe, and fear would coil around his stomach and pull taut.

No one was expecting him to be fine. It had only been a few months since she died, and nobody could recover that fast. But he hadn't been allowed to go to the funeral, so he lacked the closure that came with a burial or a memorial. Instead, he'd been stuck in prison, not eating or sleeping. He was sure that if Peter hadn't reinstated their deal, he would still be rotting in that jail cell now.

Without closure, without seeing something as final as a coffin being lowered into the ground, he couldn't process the fact she was gone. He couldn't move on to something other than this awful shock that stopped him in his tracks way too often.

He was volatile, and it was wearing him down to the point where it took all his strength just to keep himself together in public. It scared him how fast he broke down once he was alone. It scared him to know how fragile his many masks were, and how close they all were to falling apart. It scared him that maybe there was no bouncing back from this, that maybe he’d dug such a deep hole for himself that he would never be able to get back out.

+

"Caffrey—Caffrey, are you even listening?"

He'd zoned out for the third time that day, which wasn't a good sign. He took pride in being attentive, and that talent of his wasn't showing through right now. Everything was hazy, blurred, and he felt unsteady on his feet. It was like someone had pulled the sidewalk out from underneath him, and he needed to find his footing on something else before he fell into oncoming traffic.

He blinked several times, trying to shake himself out of his daze. He couldn’t keep doing this. Whatever this was, it needed to stop. “Sorry, Diana. I'm okay."

"Try to remember that I graduated from Quantico, so don't pull that shit with me." She looked authoritative in her navy blue pantsuit and black heels. Her dark hair was pulled back, making the firm yet concerned expression on her face easy to see. "If this is what you're like on a break, I don't think I want to see you when you're trying to focus."

"Jesus Christ, Diana, I said I'm fine," he snapped.

Diana's eyebrows rose at his tone. "Really?

He needed to backtrack before he got a high heel stabbed into one of his eyes. “Yeah, really.”

“Because you never swear."

"What's your point?"

"My point is that being irritable is a symptom of grief," Diana said. "And going off of the fact that this is _you_ we're talking about, you're probably a lot angrier than you're letting on."

She was right, but he wasn't about to tell her that. He could feel rage bubbling in his chest, and he was afraid he was going to crack at any second. He didn’t want to do that to Diana, or to anyone. He didn't like the way anger settled inside him, so he tried to ignore the way his body felt too small for all the emotions he was trying to contain. He shoved his rage away into a small pocket of his mind where he could deal with it on his own, or not at all. It was hard to do that, though, when he was mad at the whole world.

"Do yourself and the rest of the bureau a huge favor." Diana's hand was resting on his arm as if to steady him, and he appreciated it without saying anything. "And go home. Take some time for yourself. You seem like you could really use it."

"Like the bureau could last a day without me," he muttered, forcing that sly smirk to creep up on his lips. It made people more comfortable, made them think he was alright, made _himself_ think he was alright. It wasn’t a _bad_ lie if it made people feel better. It was clean deception, no laws broken, no hands getting dirty.

Diana returned it with a sideways smile of her own and dropped her hand. A part of him wished she’d stay with him, or at least walk with him until he was back at June’s. He hated being alone more than anything; it only served to taunt him of how everyone always left him. Always. "I'll see you later, Neal."

"Goodbye, Diana." He watched her head back down the block towards the bureau, then turned the other way and started home.

As soon as a conman believed his own con, he was as good as dead. Neal knew that.

He just couldn't bring himself to care. 

+

He'd never liked looking at dead people. It disturbed him, made his heart hurt and his veins freeze. He tried to avoid crime scenes that involved bodies, but sometimes Peter would drag him along for his expertise and he couldn't complain.

He realized now that maybe he should have objected this time. Standing there, seeing the jagged outline of white police tape on the floor and watching the bodies being loaded into black bags-- it was like taking a punch to the gut. He knew that Kate had been found in the rubble of the plane because he'd been there to see it, but Peter took him away before he could see much else. Did they haul her off in a body bag, too? Where was she buried? Had she been cremated? Were her belongings stashed in some cardboard box in the evidence room at the bureau? He wouldn’t know. No one had told him anything.

“Lovers,” he heard one of the agents behind him mutter to another. “Heard the woman was shot first, then the man…”

“At least they died together,” the other replied. “Imagine what it would be like if one of them was killed and the other had to live with it.”

The air was promptly knocked out of Neal’s lungs and he wanted to be sick.

Peter must have seen the look on his face. “You alright, Neal?”

He wasn’t sure. He didn’t think so. "I'm gonna--" he motioned around the corner of the warehouse-- "I'm-- I need some air, I'm just..."

It was clear that Peter was quite concerned, but Neal was too busy staggering out of the building to notice or care. Beads of sweat jumped out on the back of his neck. His knees buckled but he kept walking; he didn’t know where he was going or if he would even be able to make it two blocks in his current state, but he needed to leave. He couldn’t look at the lifeless bodies with identical bullet holes in their foreheads. The stench of blood still lingered in his nose, and it was making his head spin.

“Neal!”

He didn’t need to turn around to know that it was Peter. He’d know that voice anywhere. It didn’t help that it sounded exactly the same as it did on that day. Those few fateful minutes were why he was still around, and he didn’t know if he was grateful to Peter for delaying him, or if he hated Peter for it.

He could have gotten on that plane. He could be with Kate right now if he hadn’t let Peter stop him. He wouldn’t have had to live with the memory of the plane detonating, taking Kate with it--

He had to stumble to a stop when his stomach leapt into his throat. He rested his hands on his knees as he leaned over to gag painfully. Fear swept over him in one wave after another and he didn't know why, didn't know what was happening, and he was so fucking scared.

Was this what dying felt like?

He grit his teeth to prevent a whimper from escaping his throat, but that only resulted in him doubling back over and wheezing instead.

He didn't realize he was crying until tears dripped off the tip of his nose onto the gravel road. He needed to pull himself together, get a hold of himself; he couldn't afford to break like this, not here, not right now.

“Deep breaths, Neal,” Peter said. Neal could feel his hand on his back, moving in slow, soothing circles.

Neal choked and pressed his palm to his mouth. Peter had told him to breathe, so he tried as best he could.

"They took the bodies to the morgue,” Peter continued, and Neal could tell he was trying to sound as non-threatening as he could. “If that’s what upset you."

"I'm not _upset_..." That might have been the worst lie he’d ever attempted telling. He was trembling from head to toe and his lungs weren't acting like lungs. The air around him felt thin, like he was at a high altitude and there wasn't enough oxygen for him to inhale.

"Can you breathe?" There was definitely fear in Peter's voice, but he was still firm, still made it clear that Neal was going to answer the question even if he didn't want to. He could feel Peter's hand at the back of his neck, now. He was grateful that Peter knew to provide contact without any indication from him; Neal didn't think he'd have been able to say it himself.

"Not really," he managed. The world tipped, and he would have nailed his chin on the ground if Peter hadn’t caught him around the chest. He fought to keep himself upright as he hung by one of the lapels of Peter's suit jacket and his shoulder, but his legs wouldn’t support him. "Shit, Peter, I'm sorry--"

"It's okay," Peter insisted, holding him steady. “Let’s go sit down.”

It wouldn’t be the first time Peter had to drag him from one place to another. The first time it had happened, Neal had been drugged; there was no excuse this time.

Peter helped him sit against the brick wall of the warehouse and then crouched down in front of him. "Do you need me to call an ambulance?"

"I-- I don't know, I just... I need a minute, alright? Just give me a minute."

Worry had created lines between Peter’s brows and on his forehead. Judging by the level of scrutiny in his gaze, it was obvious that Neal wasn't fooling him at all. That wasn’t exactly surprising; Neal was so out of it, he doubted he’d be able to con a child, much less an FBI agent. “Take as much time as you need.”

He was touching Neal’s hand, and Neal took it, held it tight. His lower lip trembled and moisture was starting to collect beneath his lashes. There was no dignity he had left to lose when it came to Peter. He just hadn’t decided yet if that was good or bad.

“Neal, you gotta talk to me,” Peter said. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” he forced out. He doubted his ability to properly translate his thoughts into words. “One second I could handle it, and then… I couldn’t. But I don’t know, I don’t…” He closed his eyes against the vertigo and swallowed hard. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“Should I take you home?”

“I don’t want to move.”

“Then we can stay here.”

Neal liked how Peter said ‘we’ like they were two agents instead of one agent and one criminal. He liked how Peter treated him as an equal even when he was in chains. He liked that, even in a system of people who's goal it was to bring him down, there was one man he could trust with his life. And he liked that Peter trusted him, no matter how many times he screwed up.

At some point (time was a tangled mess and he was losing track of when the seconds turned into minutes) Peter had him rest his head between his knees to ease the dizziness and nausea. Neal only looked up when Peter’s draped his FBI windbreaker over his trembling shoulders.

“You’re shaking,” Peter explained. “I don’t know if it’s because you’re cold, but I thought it might help anyways.”

Neal would have smiled if he had the energy, but he only returned to his previous position with his knees pressed against his temples. Peter was rubbing his back, and he might have been speaking, but it was too difficult to focus. The color of Kate’s eyes were imprinted on his retinas, and he could hear her at the back of his brain, her voice too faint to make out any words.

And then the sound of a plane going up in flames. That awful, sudden sound; that roar of shrapnel flying every which way, the impact that threw him to the ground, and the sickening heat of fuel-laced flames. He wished he could forget that moment, and all the ones that followed. That millisecond where there was only confusion, the dread that slammed into his bones, and the blind rage he felt for days wouldn't stop haunting him.

“I want this to go away,” he mumbled.

“I know. I’m sorry, Neal. I’m so sorry.”

He could handle his pounding heart and the shaking and the waxing and waning urge he had to vomit. What he couldn’t handle was the fear he felt that seemed to be set deep into his bones. “You ever think about death, Peter?”

He seemed a little taken aback by that question. “I try not to, no.” He settled back against the brick wall too, next to Neal. “I guess you’ve been thinking about it?”

“Yeah, and—can I be honest with you, Peter?”

“Of course.”

Neal raised his head. He needed to look at Peter, needed to keep reminding himself that Peter was here with him even though he didn’t need to be. He needed to remind himself that Peter saw him as a person. “It scares the fuck out of me.”

Peter’s expression was solemn. He looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t think of what exactly it was, or how to phrase it. Neal didn’t blame him; there wasn’t much to say in response to someone admitting their fear of death. It wasn’t like Peter could tell him he had nothing to be afraid of. Everyone died sooner or later, and there wasn’t anything that could stop it. Neal was terribly aware of that.

They sat there until Neal’s shaking subsided and the sound of chatter in the warehouse began to die down. People would be coming out soon, going back to the bureau. Neal couldn’t be there when that happened.

“I want to head back to June’s,” Neal said, struggling to his feet and thanking Peter quietly when he helped him stand. “They can’t see me like this.”

“Who?” Peter asked.

“Everyone else,” he replied, and then corrected himself. “ _Anyone_ else.”

+

After learning that grieving and eating didn’t mix, Neal had submitted himself to the bathroom floor for the rest of the evening. His stomach was still turning from the earlier events of that day, still lurching and twisting at the thought of those two bodies, of _Kate’s_ body.

He hadn’t been there to see the whole scene get cleared up, but he was there when Kate was found. He might have screamed— _must_ have screamed—and then his knees stopped being knees and he was on the ground, crying even as Peter held him. She’d been in one piece, but her bones were broken and she was badly burned. Her eyes were closed, and Neal cried even more because he would never get another chance to see their color. He would never get another chance to see _her_ , not unless it was her tombstone or a photograph.

He remembered seeing Elizabeth for the first time he’d been released from prison. Her eyes were the same color as Kate’s, and for a brief moment he thought she was there.

Neal tried his best to avoid Elizabeth now.

He tried avoiding most people. He was too tired to use smoke and mirrors for them, to make them believe he was coping. And if he couldn’t trick them, he wouldn’t be around them at all.

“Neal?”

If Mozzie was there just to deplete him of wine, he was going to be pissed. He didn’t want to deal with anyone right now; he was having a hard enough time dealing with himself. He’d stay quiet, not let his presence be known, and then Mozzie would leave.

Except his gut chose that moment to threaten mutiny, and he was forced to pull himself up over the toilet bowl to vomit. There was nothing left in him to throw up, unless this was his body’s way of trying to expel heartache.

One minute Mozzie wasn’t there and the next he was by Neal’s side, and Neal didn’t even have to ask how he got through the locked door because that was grade school shit.

“I’d offer to take you to a doctor, but we’re, you know… We’re us.“

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Neal rasped, sitting up a little more and pulling the lever to flush the toilet. He pulled himself up using the counter of the sink and shuffled out of the bathroom with Mozzie in tow.

“Why are you here, Moz?” Neal asked as he sank into the couch.

“Well, _that_ sounded appreciative. I'm here to offer any support I may.”

Neal winced. He must have sounded like such an asshole. “I’m sorry, I—“

“You don’t have to apologize,” Mozzie said. He was hesitating to sit down, which was strange. Mozzie usually made himself at home wherever he was except the bureau. If he wasn’t making himself at home, that meant he was uncomfortable. That didn’t offend Neal, though. He didn’t think he’d want to be around himself when he was depressed, either.

“And you don’t have to stay,” Neal replied. “I can get by on my own.”

“But you don’t need to,” Mozzie protested, finally taking a seat on the couch, yet still giving Neal space. Neal wondered how people knew when he needed space and when he needed contact. Was he that transparent? Or had he let himself open up too much? “I’m not asking you to talk about it, but I’m not gonna leave you by yourself. You’re liable to spiral into the dark place when you’re by yourself.”

Neal smiled—it was crooked and weak and more of a grimace than a smile, but it was there. “Thanks, Moz.”

“You know you’re gonna get through this, right? This isn’t one of those ‘not with a bang, but with a whimper’ sorts of things. It’s just another hurdle. It might take some time, but you’ll jump it.”

“It doesn’t feel that way.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Mozzie agreed. “It never does. But that’s what it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> _Did you break but never mend?_   
>  _Did it hurt so much you thought it was the end?_   
>  _Lose your heart but don't know when_   
>  _And no one cares, there's no one there_


End file.
